


Weekend (somewhere outside) Havana

by andloawhatsit



Series: Milestones [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Puns, Coda, Intimacy, M/M, Recovery, Remember the Calypso, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 07:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19080490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andloawhatsit/pseuds/andloawhatsit
Summary: Steve lands in Havana. Bucky's there to meet him. For the first time in their lives, they take a holiday.





	Weekend (somewhere outside) Havana

**Author's Note:**

> Although it's not necessary to read [_Milestones_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698444) to read this story, you're certainly very welcome to. _Milestones_ was written after _The Winter Soldier_ and before _Age of Ultron_ and neither it nor this story take post-TWS films into account.

Steve stands at the bathroom counter. He clears fog from the mirror with a few half-hearted swipes of his palm, then stares at his blurred reflection, shivering as a cool breeze sweeps through the open window. Outside the sky is dark and the bungalow is far enough from both the road and other houses that only its own lights disturb the clean, crisp blackness. Compared to an evening in Brooklyn, it had felt lifeless until the breeze stirred and Steve felt the thrum of everything that was not the city happening around him. He shivers again and the mirror clears enough for him to take proper stock. His hair is ruffled, still damp from the too-long shower that has reddened his skin, and likely to dry at wrong angles if he doesn’t do something about it. His skin is as smooth and clear as ever, with nothing of his life— _and what a life_ —written on it.

He’s taking too long in the bathroom. He’s keeping Bucky waiting. Of all the times to be run down with shyness, to keep waiting the one person who has already waited too long… He clenches his jaw. Other people think, even if they never say it, that Steve found stepping out of Dr. Erskine’s machine as much relief as a homecoming, that immediately he fit into his new skin. But nevermind the oxygen high of two healthy lungs, or the bursts of colour ( _red for the first time_ ) or the bolts of new sound: Steve was a refugee in his own body, unrecognizable to himself. The first time he tried to explain this, speaking with the doctor that cleared him to disappear into the USO’s gaudy anonymity, he had fumbled his words. “It’s too much,” he had said. “People, they stare. At me.”

The doctor had shrugged. “Wouldn’t you, pal?” He shook his head wistfully, like Steve was ungrateful, and maybe, Steve thought, he was. “All the girls want you, all the guys want to be you. I’d kill a few Germans for a shot at what you got.”

“I don’t think,” Steve said, thinking about the guy he wanted, so badly, and the wonderful girl he’d just met, “that’s how it works.”

In front of the mirror, he combs his hair. It’s longer than it’s been since he woke up, more the way it had been when he was younger, perpetually in his eyes. When he and Bucky—

Steve makes his part precise and combs carefully, again and again, unsure of the exact mixture of vanity and nervousness slow him down. When he rubs his jaw, it prickles. The way Bucky liked it ( _likes it?_ ) best. He looks at his reflection again and remembers Peg, her face blank with shock, reverently prodding his chest. His body remained a mystery. He loved it, loved what he could do with it, loved not being sick, but it felt like a tool, a suit, another piece of Captain America’s gear, just one he could never take off. Peg saw through it and loved him, Bucky forgave him trespasses and loved his heart, and his friends in the future, Sam and ‘Tasha and the others, were generous and kind, but still he stared at himself and felt sick. So much had happened to him and he had nothing to show for it: hands that looked to have never done a day’s work; smooth, bare chest; uncut penis ( _not like Bucky’s_ ). His body had no history.

Is he desirable?

Is he desired?

He shivers again, this time a chill nothing to do with the temperature, because he thinks of Rumlow, the look in his eyes when he had stripped Steve. Laid him bare. Steve had—He had. He had. Enjoyed it. At the time. Or thought he did. ( _Did he?_ ) ( _Did he dare?_ ) Enjoyed giving himself up to it, the physical pleasure, the things he felt that shook his body, but like everything else, left no marks. Rumlow never hurt him. Not. Physically. ( _Did he?_ ) He splashes his face with cold water. _What can I do_ , he thought, _until it leaves a mark?_

But then he thinks of Bucky—of sitting with him at a café near the skating rink and saying, _We’re written on each other_. That, at least, if nothing else, is true. They belong to themselves and to each other.

A thump at the door. Steve jumps.

“You alive in there?”

It’s a brittle joke, both of them so afraid of loss that’s all that’s left is the conceit of humour. Steve had travelled entirely in trust, knowing that Bucky waited for him at the end of the line, yet at the last moment, as he stepped off the plane, his stomach flipped with sudden, acidic fear. ( _What if something happened? What if he’s run? What if he’s gone?_ )

But Bucky had been waiting—had crushed Steve into a fierce embrace, whispering, “I have been dreaming aboutyou, my _oytzer_ , I am _burning up_ , get in the damn car.”

Steve got in the damn car and they hadn’t needed to speak. Bucky drove and Steve rested his hand over where Bucky’s sat, gentle, on the gear-shift, and when they got to the bungalow well after dark, freedom hung as strangely from Steve’s shoulders as his new body had felt after the machine.

Bucky said, “The shower is—And I got. Towels. And I'm, well...”

He thrust a piece of paper into Steve's hand, then—test results: clean—and Steve had eagerly pulled its companion, his own results, from his overnight bag, then said, "Thank you," like an idiot, and hid himself in the bathroom, attempting to shower away his apprehension and shame. Everything had to be perfect. _Steve_ had to be perfect. For him. For this.

But he can’t keep Bucky waiting any longer. He pulls on his shorts and a white undershirt, musses his hair, hurriedly recombs it, then opens the door.

Relief flashes across Bucky’s face and Steve wants to tell him it’s okay, that he knows how it feels, but he doesn’t know how. He can’t. He says, “Sorry.” Like an idiot.

Bucky strokes Steve’s cheek with the fingertips of his right hand. “You got all cleaned up for me, babe?” His voice is both fond and teasing, with a touch of disbelief, like he can’t believe anyone would go to the trouble.

Steve would. Any trouble, anywhere. He says, “Sorry I took so long.”

“Look at your hair,” says Bucky, softly. He reaches out and ruffles it, promptly undoing all of Steve’s hard work. Steve protests, but Bucky only smiles, small and quiet. “You only comb your hair so much when you’re nervous.” He shows his teeth. “Am I making you nervous?”

Steve may not know a lot, but he knows Bucky’s bluffs and bravado, knows his tics as well as Bucky knows his. “Not you, sugar,” he says. “I just want—” He swallows. “To be what you want.”

Bucky tilts his head, then shakes it. “No,” he says. “No, Steve, no, you can’t.” He closes his eyes, visibly wrestling himself under control. “Don’t change anything,” he says, eyes still closed. He opens them, then, and pins Steve in his gaze. “I want you just as you are.”

Steve doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, because what he wants is Bucky. Their bodies pressed together, Bucky’s mouth against his, Bucky’s fingertips trying his skin. He wants to be lost in Bucky, because they have been so very patient. “I want to kiss you,” he blurts.

“I have been waiting,” says Bucky, exasperated, “since you walked off the plane.”

And that’s all the encouragement Steve needs to bend down ( _down!_ Steve still marvels at that), cup Bucky’s face in his hands and kiss him. Thrill from the toes up when Bucky grabs his hips and steers him backward, pushing him against the wall.

“Finally,” says Bucky, and pulls away only to mouth at Steve’s neck instead.

He sucks a mark over Steve’s collarbone and Steve thinks, _Mark me, write on me, show me you’ve been here_ , and manages to gasp, “It’s okay, if you want to stop, just tell me.”

“I don’t,” says Bucky, and Steve feels the sharp nip of Bucky’s teeth at his collarbone.

“Bucky, I just, _Jesus_ , I just mean if you want, anytime, I promise.”

Bucky pulls back a moment to look Steve in the eye. “I trust you.”

It’s so simple, so open, so raw, that Steve’s weak in the knees. He didn’t think that actually happened, that a person went weak in the knees for love, but here he is, about to fall to the ground with begging on his lips. But Bucky bolsters him and Steven, for the moment, can only tilt back his head and let the man work: He gets Steve’s shirt off, Steve returns the favour, and they pause a moment, Steve holding Bucky against his chest, both their hearts racing. Bucky ducks his head and kisses Steve’s throat.

“Thank you,” says Steve. ( _For waiting, forgiving me, loving me, anchoring me in my skin, doing that thing with your tongue in particular._ )

“The bed,” says Bucky against Steve’s chest, “is very nice. I haven’t slept in it, I don’t do beds, but we don’t have to go to sleep.” He tugs Steve forward by the hand, leading him to the bedroom and manoeuvring him to a king-sized bed with plain white sheets;

Steve feels a faint flush of embarrassment when Bucky pulls his shorts away. Joking to try to cover it, he says, “How am I naked already?”.

“You started with fewer clothes than me,” says Bucky, “and also, I am very determined.” He looks up. “Do you want to stop—or pause?”

Steve shakes his head. “No.”

Bucky kisses his mouth open, then settles with his legs and elbows planted on either side of Steve’s body. “What you said before,” he says, voice low in Steve’s ear ( _he still, instinctively, goes for Steve’s “good” ear_ ), “about what _I_ want.” He smiles against Steve’s neck, sucks another mark, then wets the patch with his tongue. Steve gasps and pushes his hips up against Bucky’s. “What I mean is, and I’ve lost how to say it, say it well, I mean, but you’re gorgeous, Steve, and you’re who I want, what I want.”

Steve flushes, even his chest pinking.

“And you think I can’t tell,” says Bucky, kissing his throat again. “You getting so shy, combing your hair, standing in front of the mirror fussing, wondering how you got so lucky and whether somebody’s going to take it away. _When_ they’re gonna take it away.”

Bucky’s right on the money and Steve has nothing to say. “You’re not an _it_ ,” he manages.

“It’s _my_ luck,” says Bucky. “ _I_ got lucky.”

“You’re gonna.”

“Stop joking,” says Bucky, kissing his way down Steve’s chest. “You’ve always been straight to my taste, big and small.”

“Not very straight.”

Bucky sits up, looking confused. “What?”

“It’s—” Steve groans as Bucky teases his nipples. “A joke. The slang now. If you’re not queer, you’re straight.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You and your puns.” He bends his head down once more and kisses Steve’s hip, traces the line of Steve’s thigh with the tip of his tongue.

Nearly cross-eyed with concentration, Steve says, “The puns is the lowest form of wit and the bun—”

Bucky shuts him up with a kiss to his inner thigh. He presses his tongue, then, against Steve’s dick and licks, broad stripes, before he takes the head into his mouth. His hands on Steve’s hips, clutching, are enough to keep him from pushing upward, but still Steve squirms with pleasure—Bucky’s slow sucking, the wet warmth, the flick of his tongue. Bucky keeps his left hand on Steve’s hip, but slides the other downward, stroking Steve’s thigh, running his fingertips over Steve’s balls.

Steve moans softly, pushes up just a bit to nudge his dick past Bucky’s lips; he’s still shy, but so happy. This is Bucky, his Bucky, not that a person could belong to anyone, Bucky was free, free to do anything he wanted, and wasn’t that the point? Bucky was free to do anything he wanted, and he was here. He had waited, ready to kiss Steve out of his fear, while Steve showered, cowardly, for forty minutes.

Bucky lifts his head to give him a small smile, then sets again to work, fumbling with his right hand to open a bottle of lube open ( _where did he find that?_ ). He wraps his slick hand around the base of Steve’s dick, moving his curled fingers in slow pulls. Steve feels a jolt in his thighs.

Then he pulls off and Steve, though aching and eager, feels a jolt of an altogether different kind. He props himself up on his elbows and says, “Sugar? You okay?”

Bucky sits back and wipes his mouth. “You’re getting close.”

“It’s okay if you want to stop,” says Steve. “Or—do something. Else.”

In response, Bucky leans forward and kisses him, stretching out against Steve’s body, laying them down again. He’s still in his shorts, but Steve can feel him. “You are so—”

Steve supplies a guess. “Earnest?” He strokes Bucky’s hair while Bucky presses his face into Steve’s shoulder, shaking with quiet laughter.

“It’s just—” Bucky’s flopped, now, lying loose-limbed on top of Steve, shifting so as not to squash him, and the warm weight of him is blissful. “You’re lying there, naked as the day you were born, my spit all on you, and—” He shifts, then reaches down to tug gently at Steve’s dick. “ _This_.” He smiles. "Generous. You're so generous."

Steve hitches his hips with Bucky’s movements, but forces himself to concentrate. “I like putting you first,” he says. “I never got to spoil you the way I wanted, so I... Anyway, it’s not special treatment, it’s just making sure.”

Bucky braces Steve’s neck with his left hand, kisses him, and slides his right back up Steve’s chest, teasing his nipples again. He licks his lips, more a nervous tic than seduction, and wipes his mouth again. “Can you—With me? The way, the way we used to?”

It’s a kind of test, and a fear to be banished. _The way we used to. Do you remember? Do you want it still? Do we want the same things?_ Steve nods without hesitation.

They shift, knock against each other, and Bucky strips, and Steve catches him by the elbow and gently tugs him forward, listening for a change in his breathing, anything to suggest he wasn’t okay, that he felt under orders.

“ _Steve_.” Bucky tilts Steve’s face upward. “If I don’t like it, you’ll know.”

Steve frowns. He doesn’t want to suggest that Bucky doesn’t know his own limits, but he doesn’t want to push those limits either—certainly not by mistake. “Anything you want, Buck, okay? Stop, go, anything.”

Bucky gives him that small smile once again. “You know you taste the same? I remember it.”

Steve grins. He thinks he maybe ought to feel embarrassed again, but he doesn’t—Only a small, flickering happiness burning in his chest.He is still recognizable. He kisses Bucky again, nips at his lip again, the way he likes. That way that makes him shiver.

“ _Steve_ ,” says Bucky, mumbling, and he opens his mouth to Steve’s kisses and his legs to Steve’s body. His cock rubs against Steve’s belly as Steve slicks himself. He fits between Bucky’s thighs and begins to move, slowly at first, pushing himself between Bucky’s legs as Bucky presses his thighs together.

“Thank you,” says Steve, again, like an idiot.

“For this?” Bucky’s gasping. Steve is moving faster, shifting to give Bucky something to rub off against.

“For everything.” Steve ducks his head and kisses Bucky’s chest.

“You gave it up,” says Bucky, still gasping, thrusting against Steve. “You gave it all up, you ran away, you followed me on what? A prayer and a fucking riddle?”

“‘Remember the Calypso,’” says Steve, and he can’t help giggling, and Bucky laughs too, and comes over both their stomachs, and Steve shivers violently and follows, pushing himself between the slick press of Bucky’s legs until he’s spent and gasping, collapsed against Bucky’s chest.

»»»

Steve sleeps through the night—Mostly. He wakes with the earliest rays of sun pushing pink though the gauzy curtains and his heart racing, a crashing having jarred him from rest.

When his eyes focus, he sees Bucky. The room is still half-dark, but Steve’s eyesight is excellent, and Bucky is sitting, hunched, on top of the blankets. “Buck?”

“Nightmare,” says Bucky.” He gestures with his shoulder. “I broke the lamp.”

Steve rolls over to take Bucky’s metal hand in his. “By the way, I forgot.”

“About nightmares?”

“Sadly, no,” says Steve. “I owe you something.”

“Pretty sure I can spot you whatever few bucks you owed me back in the day.”

“Little bit more recent,” says Steve, and kisses Bucky’s hip, the inside of his thigh. “Closer to last night than 1944.” He sneezes, throwing the attempted suavity of the moment into disarray. Bucky laughs, at least, and flops back onto the bed, and Steve crawls back to lie beside him, resting his hand on Bucky’s chest.

“Your friends okay?”

“Hmm?” Steve is dozy, warm and comfortable, pressed to Bucky’s side.

“You lied to them. For me.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Bucky pokes his side, and Steve yelps. “That’s cold!”

“Well, it’s too late for me to not worry about it.”

Steve swallows. Whatever mix of nightmare remnants and his usual worries, Bucky’s scared, and Steve wants to help. “You remember last night, when you were ribbing me about combing my hair, and being afr—worrying that I’d lose this?”

Bucky nods.

Steve brushes his fingertips across Bucky’s nipple, then slides up, to stroke Bucky’s lower lip. Bucky sucks at Steve’s fingers, and when they’re wet, Steve brings them down to tease his nipple again. Bucky’s breathing quickens. “You’re scared too, yeah? That I’ll leave or worse, that I’ll resent coming, or what I did to get here?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

Steve pushes himself forward and kisses Bucky’s mouth. Bucky moans softly and Steve nips at his lip, then pulls back to say, “I won’t, and I _never will_. I did what I had to do to keep you safe and I’ll never regret it.”

“And after we leave Cuba?”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Steve, stubborn. “I’m sure Rachael and Ashleigh would agree that my friend Yasha’s very handsome—Well worth a date or several.”

“But your friends,” says Bucky, persistent. “Are they okay?”

“They will be,” says Steve. “I sent Natasha a message. She’ll be pissed at me when we get back”—Steve tries not to stumble over the _we_ —“but she knows I’m alright. She won’t burn anything down, and she’ll let Clint know, and they’ll tell Tony and Pepper. If Tony asks.”

“And Wilson?”

“So inquisitive.”

“I don’t want to wreck your life, Steve.”

“Sam knows I’m with you. Doesn’t know where we are, but he turned up at my apartment and he guessed.”

“More like he took one look at you and saw through you like a window. _Feh_!” But Bucky swatted at Steve affectionately when he said it.

“Basically,” said Steve. “Can I make you some coffee?”

“I thought you had a debt to settle?”

Steve grins, and kisses him again. Bucky squirms with delight, and moans softly when Steve sucks soft kisses against his lower belly.

After fishing the bottle from the tangled sheets, Steve slicks his fingers and strokes Bucky’s cock, soft pulls from base to head, feeling Bucky get hard under his fingers. He swipes his thumb across the head, wiping away the moisture there, and Bucky’s sharp gasp sends a pulse of pleasure through his own body. He has no notion, though, of making Bucky wait: Instead, he ducks and takes the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth, letting it rest heavily on his tongue a moment before he closes his lips and sucks. Bucky reaches down to stroke Steve’s face, to brush his fingertips over Steve’s cheek, and Steve brings his own fingers up, wraps them around Bucky’s cock. Bucky moans, then, louder, and thrusts, pushing his cock further into Steve’s mouth. He catches Steve by surprise, and immediately apologizes for Steve’s cough and splutter, but Steve won’t waste time.

“Hush,” he says.

“But I—”

“Hush,” says Steve, licking his lips, “and let me take care of you.” Bucky’s hard, now, his cock erect, shining with Steve’s saliva, and Steve, fumbling, runs his slick fingers over his own dick, then draws up over Bucky and kisses him deeply. He kisses Bucky’s throat.

“Please,” says Bucky, gasping. “Soon, please.”

And Steve can’t deny him a thing. “Touch you?”

Bucky nods, and moans when Steve gets a hand between, jerks him off between their two bodies, awkward and urgent, a tangle of limbs and emotion, desire that cannot be resisted.

“Steve, I, Steve, Steve—” Bucky can’t seem to form the sentence he wants, but before Steve can ask, he says, “I’m okay, I just—” He gasps, then thrusts hard into the tightness of Steve’s fist and comes in hot pulses, his body shivering, and before he settles, he rolls Steve beneath him. He pushes his wet cock agains Steve’s belly, shifts to rub his thigh against Steve’s dick, and drags Steve over the edge behind him, until they’re both gasping and wet, Bucky stretched flat over Steve, holding on to him.

»»»

With his sleeves pushed up to the elbows and his hands in a sink of soapy water, Steve looks out at the beach—It’s visible from _their_ kitchen window. He can’t believe it. If he could have looked ahead from 1938, their cold and cramped apartment, his body threatening to give out any time it pleased, he could not possibly have imagined. “What is this place?” He pulls the plug.

“It’s a bungalow,” says Bucky. He’s not wearing a shirt. Thick white scars stand out on his shoulder, but while outside, they identify him—never mind his metal arm—inside, his scars and the kiss-bruises Steve left on his skin can be exposed. Inside, they belong entirely to themselves and to each other.

“I gathered,” says Steve, rolling his eyes. He rinses the last mug, then sets it upside down in the dish-rack and drains the sink. “But why are we here?” _You wouldn’t tolerate anywhere insecure, so what makes this place secure?_

“It’s an old safe house,” says Bucky. “Not Hydra, just—” His voice wavers, but only for a moment—“Only Pierce’s, it’s Pierce’s. No one knew about it. _No one._ ” He swallows. “I was supposed to come here. His personal bodyguard. If it all fubared. Hydra above all else, but himself above that.” He grimaced, then briskly shook his eat. “So eat all his food, Steve, and drink all his booze, and we’re going to fuck on every flat surface. Twice.”

Steve dries his hands, dragging the towel in-between his fingers, remembering the drag of his fingertips over Bucky’s thighs. “Sugar,” he says, without looking, giving Bucky space while he tucks the towel over the stove-handle, but then he hears Bucky’s wobbling breath and turns with open arms to catch and clutch him. He presses his face into Bucky’s hair and murmurs, “If you want to burn this place to ash and walk away, I’ll do it with a smile on my face.”

Bucky shivers, despite the heat.

Steve continues. “And if all you want to do is lie in bed, making time and drinking that fucker's scotch…” He pulls back to kiss Bucky’s forehead. “Then my answer’s the same. He doesn’t add that he knows Bucky’s upset— _really_ upset—when he swears like that, coarse and American. Some kinds of obvious do not need pointing out. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says, and kisses Bucky’s neck. “How’s your arm stand up to seawater?”

“Arm’d withstand a nuclear attack,” says Bucky, muttering into Steve’s shoulder. “Arm’s a cockroach.”

»»»

They don’t really swim. Theypaddle and splash. Bucky floats, face turned up to the sun, with Steve supporting him at his lower back and upper thighs. Bucky’s arm rejects water like oil off a Teflon pan.

“Like their wipes,” says Bucky, when he catches Steve looking. “Just won’t take.” He rights himself quickly and dunks Steve to distract from replying, a tactic that only works because when Steve clears the surface again, saltwater stinging his eyes, Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and kisses him. Bucky tastes like salt and the beginnings of a beard tickle Steve’s skin, so he leans in, refusing to let go.

Still with one arm slung around Steve’s neck, Bucky slides the other, his metal arm, over Steve’s shoulder to trail his fingertips down Steve’s side, lingering at the waistband of his shorts. Steve moans a little against Bucky’s mouth. Bucky swallows the sound with another deep kiss and pushes his hand into Steve’s shorts. He cups the curve of Steve’s ass, squeezing gently, then curling his fingers into Steve’s inner thigh before sliding his hand around Steve’s front.

Steve is pretty sure he’s floating. Pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven, because Bucky’s tongue is in his mouth and Bucky’s fingers are curled around his dick in a loose fist and moving gently, even when Steve pushes his hips forward.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve gasps, as Bucky’s thumb rubs the sensitive head, nudging the skin there. Then Steve pushes off from the sand to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist, and Bucky pulls his hand free to wrap his arms tightly around Steve’s hips, pulling him close. Steve holds him against his chest, feeling the press of his erection and Bucky’s, and says, “I love you, I love you.” Bucky holds him tighter and says nothing in reply, and Steve, nearly overwhelmed himself, achingly hard, won’t let Bucky get lost in sorrow, and so tilts his weight forward and tips Bucky backward into the water.

“CHEATER,” bellows Bucky, spluttering, when he resurfaces to chase Steve to shore.

»»»

“I love you, too,” says Bucky, when they’re lying on their backs on a large blanket they’d spread on the sand and weighted with stones. “I didn’t say it before, but I do.”

“Without wanting to sound conceited,” says Steve, “I know.” They’re dozy and comfortable. He’s still half-hard from Bucky’s hand, but only half, and for the moment, he’s content to wait. “Do you think we still burn?”

“Hmm?” Bucky’s voice, too, is relaxed.

“In the sun. Does the serum prevent burning, or just make us heal faster?”

“Dunno,” says Bucky. “You’re the one with the Irish complexion.”

“This one time at Coney Island,” says Steve, remembering, “I burned the bottoms of my feet.”

“And moaned and complained all the way home,” says Bucky, grin in his voice, “until I—ah!”

“What?”

“I remember,” says Bucky, eager. “I threw you over my shoulder and carried you the rest of the way. You were speechless. Couldn’t decide which ticked you off more, I’d wager.”

“Just about,” says Steve, and laughs.

“Oh, for pete’s sake,” says Bucky. “Never mind the sun anyhow.” He rolls on top of Steve, then, and kisses him, and when Steve is wide-eyed and breathless, sits up and strips him out of his shorts. Steve squirms, partly with pleasure and partly seeking comfort on the uneven sand, but he loves the security of turning his body, his naked body, to Bucky. He wonders what Bucky will do, what he might ask Bucky for and what he might offer—Bucky’s mouth on him again? Bucky between his thighs? Nothing but the firm stroke of Bucky’s cool hand, or his own face buried in Bucky’s lap, working his lover to distraction?

Bucky’s got his own head between Steve’s legs and he licks gently at Steve’s balls, though he lifts his head, making a face, to spit out sand. He ducks again soon enough, though, dragging the point of his tongue around the base of Steve’s dick, pubic hair brushing against his face before he licks up the shaft. He licks at the wet head of Steve’s dick, then sucks it into his mouth, tongues the slit, and Steve can’t help arching, just a bit, pushing his dick past Bucky’s lips, though he pulls himself down again and apologises.

Bucky sits back and wipes his mouth, a drag of his hand over his wet lips, and looks down at Steve. “I meant it,” he says, suddenly very serious, and though Steve’s senses are still hazy with pleasure, he registers Bucky’s need and focuses himself sharply. “Every available surface.”

Steve sits up, though it twinges to shift with his erection. He reaches out and gently puts his fingers on Bucky’s chin. “Tell me what you want,” he says, softly.

“Come inside,” says Bucky, eyes locked on Steve’s. He blushes, then grins. “I mean—the house. But fuck me.”

“Butt-fu—“

Bucky swats at him to cut him off, but he smiles.

Steve bites his lip.

“I know what I want,” says Bucky. “Trust me, I know what I—”

“I trust you,” says Steve, simply. “Inside, okay.” He swallows, still meeting Bucky’s eyes. “On the bed, though, and slow. I want it to feel good. If it’s”—He swallows again—“If it’s something else that you want, then we have to stop and talk more.” He doesn’t want to hurt Bucky; he _cannot_ do that. He holds his breath.

“That’s what I want,” says Bucky. He’s pink—Shyness? Sun? Excitement? “Now. You and me. I know we didn’t often, but if you don’t mind—” He looks away.

Steve gently touches his chin, tugs his gaze back. “I don’t mind.” When he rises to his feed, he’s suddenly self-conscious, narrowly resisting the urge to cover his dick with his hands, but _no—_ They’re _safe_ and they’re _together_ and they’re _alone_. He lets Bucky lead him toward the bungalow, him naked and Bucky just about.

»»»

In the bedroom, still cluttered from the night before, Steve strips Bucky out of his shorts, then lays him out on the bed. He works Bucky open with lube-slicked fingers—slowly, probably more slowly than needs be, waiting until Bucky squirms with pleasure, breath catching, and all the while, watching him closely to make sure. He strokes Bucky’s thigh as he rubs him from the inside, watching Bucky’s cock twitch and swell, listening to his moans break high. Then he tenses and Steve stills, moves to slip back, but Bucky reaches down and clutches his hand.

“Just wait,” he says, gasping. “Just—Give it a minute.”

So Steve does, feeling the clench of Bucky’s body. When Bucky’s breathing settles, he crooks his fingers, wanting fiercely to push into Bucky, to please him. With his other hand, he lightly strokes Bucky’s cock, hard now. Bucky shivers, clenching around Steve’s fingers. “Now,” he gasps. “I’m ready now.”

Steve slips his fingers free and strokes his thumbs over Bucky’s thighs. Bucky’s cock is heavy and flushed, curving upward toward his belly, and he clutches the blankets in his fist as though to keep from touching himself. “On your back, sugar? On your stomach? How do you want it?”

Bucky spreads his legs in answer, pulls up his knees, grins at Steve, and Steve moves forward. Fumbling, he slicks his own dick with a stifled groan, then presses against Bucky. He slips inside, they both gasp, a slow push, and he waits giving them both time to adjust, whispering to Bucky as he does—checking in, praising him, murmuring foolishness about the feel of him—and when Bucky signals that he’s ready, Steve cups his hands around Bucky’s shoulders and begins to move.

They’re both so close; it won’t take long.

Steve pulls back, then drives forward again. He fills Bucky slowly, lets Bucky envelop him before pulling back to repeat the motion, tidal.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky gasps, “where are we?”

After a flash of disorienting fear, Steve realizes Bucky’s question is rhetorical. Bucky is panting, tossing his head from side to side, pushing his hips up to meet Steve’s, clenching around Steve’s dick. They’re close, they’re so close.

“Where _are_ we?” Bucky’s voice wavers, but with urgency more than fear, and Steve realizes what he needs.

“In the bungalow,” he says.

“ _Steve._ ” Bucky thrusts up against him. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“Pierce is dead,” says Steve. “We beat him and we—” He feels suddenly that he’s watching himself and Bucky from above, Bucky beneath him, but no. No. He rejects this voyeurism of the self. It is enough to be in the world. He is here with Bucky, entirely present in their bodies and entirely alone, together, and he knows what Bucky needs—Not just for sex, not just to come, but in the core of his independent, inestimably valuable self. “We _beat_ him,” he says again. “And we are _fucking_ in his _house_.”

And that’s the end of it.

As their pulses steady, they lie still coupled. Steve twitches with pleasure, his skin humming, and pushes gently into Bucky once more, an afterglow spasm.

Bucky pulls Steve into a soft kiss. “Thank you,” he says.

Steve gingerly slips free, then rolls onto his side, though he doesn’t go far. He lays next to Bucky, one hand on his wet belly, suddenly exhausted. He can see Bucky’s fading quickly, too. “Think you can sleep?”

“Sleep,” Bucky mumbles. “Good plan.”

Steve stumbles yawning into the ensuite to fetch a couple towels, then cleans them both, a bit at least, before falling back into bed.

“Steve?”

“Mmm?”

“Love you.”

Steve clasps his hand.

»»»

They wake around midnight. Bucky makes scrambled eggs and they eat while playing cards at the kitchen table, then crawl back into bed a couple hours later, just as the sun peeks over the horizon.

»»»

When they wake again, Steve doesn’t have the faintest idea of the time. He grins and stretches and the jostling disturbs Bucky, who flops onto his side and pulls the blankets over his head. Steve turns, curls against him, and pulls him close. Kisses the back of his neck. Whispers, “Good morning.”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” says Bucky.

“How do you know?”

“I can always tell. We should do the laundry.”

“Should get out of bed then.”

“Okay, skip the laundry.”

Steve grins again, kisses Bucky’s neck again. Bucky’s right, though: The sheets are tangled, towel kicked to the bottom of the bed, pillows a jumble, splotches of lube on the duvet. Steve should probably be disgusted, but he can’t be bothered. Never in his life has he had the opportunity to be so lazy. Maybe he _ought_ to get up and wash the sheets.

Bucky reaches back to grab Steve’s arm, then curls forward to place Steve’s hand between his legs. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says.

“Oh, don’t I?” Steve curls his fingers gently around Bucky’s cock, strokes the soft skin there.

“I mean it,” says Bucky. “I just like to be near you, to feel you.”

Steve curves closer around him with no intention other than that nearness. “Like this?”

“Mmhmm.”

Steve kisses the back of his neck a third time, soft and simple, and lets sleepiness tug at him, all the while keeping his hand on Bucky, not moving, just touching.

“Thank you,” says Bucky, quietly.

»»»

Later, while Bucky showers, Steve's work ethic rallies enough to seize the upper hand and he strips the bed, then remakes it with clean spares from the hall closet. The fresh sheets are crisply tucked and neatly cornered, and the dirty bedding spinning in the washer when Bucky emerges, scrubbed pink and wearing Steve’s sweats.

Steve is just coming into the room with two tall glasses, so while Bucky doesn’t see him at first, he gets full-view of Bucky’s fear at seeing their presence erased and Steve gone. “Iced coffee, coming through,” he calls, soft and nonchalant, though he can see the tension shudder through Bucky’s shoulders before it dissipates. “Want to drink it on the patio?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, on the beach.” He takes Steve’s hand and leads him outside, grabbing a beach umbrella from the closet on the way, and they set up shop beneath it, the hottest part of the day having passed.

“Tell me about your portfolio,” says Bucky.

“I want to get back into illustration,” says Steve. He’s never told anybody this. “I’ve been practicing, um, with a tablet—drawing on the computer, like—and you can do some really beautiful things. If you’re good at it.” Bucky is still holding onto his hand. “I mean, I still like drawing by hand, but there my portfolio’s mostly, well, _you_.” He drains his cup. “When I woke up, you’d been gone for seventy years, but I’d had my head in your lap three days before. I thought I was losing my mind. Drawing helped. I didn’t have any pictures of you. I was trying to write everything down.” He starts, remembering. “You know I went to an exhibit that was supposed to be our apartment?”

“You’re kidding,” says Bucky. “You can’t be serious.”

“According to them,” says Steve, warming to his topic, “we had our own kitchen table”—they hadn’t, instead balancing an old door over the bathtub—“and two single beds”—they hadn’t, instead sharing a worn mattress on the floor after selling Sarah’s bed one brutal winter in the late 30s. After Bucky and a neighbour had carted it downstairs, Steve had cried and punched the door, bloodying his knuckles and doing not one whit of damage to the doorframe, and Bucky had bandaged his hand and said nothing. “Becca or Bina must have taken your things before anyone got in there, but still, they put a crucifix over the beds. They must have had a false impression of how Catholic I actually was”

“You’re a proper heathen,” says Bucky, fondly. “So a very proper Catholic, then.”

“Hey!” Steve gives Bucky a gentle shove.

“I will make whatever jokes I want,” says Bucky. “I’ve earned it.” He flops back on the sand, so Steve joins him, intertwining their hands again.

“So I was drawing that too, our place. Not that it was so much, but I wanted to remember it. I wanted to be honest.”

“I always knew you were going to be such an incredible person,” says Bucky.

“Not me,” Steve protests. “I was just tagging along.”

“That war fucked over a whole lot of people, Stevie, and I know we’re not the only ones left, but it sure feels like it, sometimes.”

Steve turns on his side. “Okay, so, I’m gonna go back to art school—What are you gonna do?”

Bucky frowns. “Aw, going to college was a stupid idea, leave me alone.”

“C’mon,” says Steve, prodding his hip. “Just make something up.”

“I want to build things,” says Bucky, in a tiny voice.

“Remember you and Howard got that jeep levitating? I thought Philips was going to skin you both alive, but you charmed him out of it.”

“I know I killed Howard,” says Bucky, suddenly. “I read about it. But I don’t remember it.

“The way I see it,” says Steve, “they stole you from yourself, but you stole yourself back.”

“He was my friend,” says Bucky. “And I killed him.”

“If we switched places,” says Steve, “what would you tell me?”

“It’s not that easy.” Bucky’s irritated, now. “Don’t be naive.”

“It’s never been _easy_ , sugar,” says Steve. “But Howard, at his best, would be furious if you didn’t put that brain of yours to use, and that’s the honest truth. What do you want to build?”

Bucky’s silent.

Steve treads carefully, but forward nonetheless. “Tell me, please. What I mean is, you don’t have to, but I swear I want to know.”

“Everything,” says Bucky. “Machines, buildings, bridges, rocket-ships, everything, I want it all, I’m so _hungry_. Can we do it?”

“Yes,” says Steve. “There. We made a plan—I’m going to art school and you’re going to study engineering, for a start. And then—”

“We’re going to get a cat,” says Bucky. “One of them little street-fighting ones, like what used to live behind the apartment and you were always feeding ‘em.”

“Good, cat, okay.” Steve flicks Bucky’s elbow, _kiss_ , then kisses his hand, just because he can.

“I’m going to get that hover-car working,” says Bucky. “Nobody has yet, not even Howard’s kid, but I got some ideas. I know how to do it.”

“Brilliant,” says Steve. “I’m going to finish my illustrations, get everything out of my head and onto paper.”

“You been drawing dirty pictures of me, babe?” Bucky laughs at Steve's blush. “Don’t tell me lies, now—I know how you spent most of 1938, which is to say _naked_ any time I could get you alone.

Steve shrugs, still blushing, because even though he’s not embarrassed, his body never believes him. “There are,” he says, “a few.” He swallows. “They aren’t—well, sexual, though. I didn’t think it was, um, fair. Before I knew. That you wanted me back. I only drew what I, um, remembered.”

Bucky squeezes his hand. “A scholar _and_ a gentlemen.” He sighs.

Steve glories in the surety of his grip and they both stare up at the blinding-bright blue sky, and it’s like when they were kids, Steve on the cushions on the floor, Bucky hanging off the edge of his bed to whisper to him in the night. “Christ,” he says, whistling through his teeth. “It hits me sometimes, _Christ_ , I can’t believe we made it this far.”

“Language,” says Bucky, lifting his free hand to poke Steve in the ribs.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Steve, and Bucky laughs and tilts his head to rest against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve doesn't think about anything in particular except what he might make Bucky for dinner, whenever they get around to getting up.   


**Author's Note:**

> I believe the idea of Bucky's sisters cleaning out his and Steve's apartment originated with, or in discussion with, Tumblr user dropdeaddream c.2015/16. If you remember more details, please feel free to leave a comment and I'll add it to this note.


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